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time brushing my teeth in front of the glitzed-out mirror over Vera's sink, pausing to frown at my reflection—the smears of mascara under my eyes, the all-over-the-place hair, the slightest stain of a bruise at the base of my neck.
    Uh, wait.
    "Is that a hickey?" I spit out toothpaste and lean in for a closer look. Yep. It is. "What is this, eighth grade?"
    I almost storm back out to the bedroom to give Gage a hard time about it, but first of all that'd mean bringing up last night again, which means I'll continue reliving it, which just doesn't go well together with being this hungover. And second, I've got to do something about the makeup running down my face.  
    I swipe a pump of face wash and splash some water over my skin. Vera's countertop is stocked with lotions and perfumes and more makeup than I've ever seen in one spot, but as much as I'd love to freshen up a little further, I don't know her well enough to just use all of her things without asking. Wish I'd thought to bring my purse in with me, at least there's some lip gloss in there. And a hairbrush. I shove the disheveled tangle of my hair into a messy bun, tying it into itself since I'm sans ponytail holder. It'll have to do. Oh, but it shows my neck and the mark Gage left. On second thought, I steal the tiniest amount of concealer from Vera's collection, smoothing it over the hickey. It's a shade much lighter than what I'd usually use, but it helps to hide the purpled shadow darkening my skin—almost completely, but it's still there if you know what to look for.  
    Though having a love bite is the least of my worries right now.
    I should go back out there. I have to leave the bathroom. I have to face reality, to go home—but that thought brings on a fresh wave of nausea… Maybe I'll just take a small rest first. I sit on the edge of the tub, holding my head in my hands and using my fingers to put pressure against all the places currently throbbing around my skull. Vera must have Tylenol somewhere around here, but I'm not going to snoop her cabinets for it. I've invaded her home way too much already.  
    But that means I have to leave the security of the bathroom. I have to face Gage.
    I take a few more deep breaths, both to ease my nausea and prepare myself for the real world, and then rewrap myself in the sheet and open the bathroom door.

CHAPTER SIX
    Gage has his shirt on and is sitting at the foot of the bed, my skirt and shirt in his hands. When I step into the room, he holds them out to me and turns his head away as I slip into them.
    "Okay, well… I should go." It dawns on me, though, I have no idea how I'm going to get anywhere. Call a cab, I guess.  
    "Listen," he says, waiting for me to look at him. "I feel like an asshole."  
    Did something happen I don't remember? I hesitate to ask, "Why?"  
    "You had a lot to drink last night."
    "Wouldn't that make me the asshole?"  
    He cracks a smile. "I didn't act very responsibly."
    "Um, we didn't…" Ugh, I don't want to say it. "We didn't, you know, do it —which is all thanks to you."
    "We probably shouldn't have done anything," he says, a hint of regret passing through his warm, amber eyes. "I shouldn't have teased you this morning. I made you uncomfortable, and…well, I feel like an asshole."
    "I'm uncomfortable because I don't think I've ever been this hungover in my entire life." I sit opposite him on the bed, leaning against the headboard. I clutch a pillow against my lap. "Last night was…" I stop for a moment as it hits me. Last night was the first night I've had in ages where I didn't feel sad. Or anxious. Or tense. Though it's all flowing back now. I do my best to stem it and force myself to keep eye contact with Gage. "I don't regret last night—not a single part of it."
    "Maybe not right now, but—"
    "I wouldn't regret it even if you hadn't stopped us from going further." I rub the fabric of the pillowcase between my fingers. So much for not talking about it. But he feels so bad, I